


shakin' in their shoes (oh, lord, don't shake me now)

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles Being Concerned, Cherik - Freeform, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Lehnsherr Character Study, Erik has Issues, M/M, Mentally Ill Character, Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:12:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik forgot that he hated compliments directed toward himself. He never knew what to do with them, had no experience with them past the lilt of his poor mama or the disgusting snarl of Schmidt. He was much better with insults. The chess board was vibrating.</p>
<p>(alternatively, Erik literally can't handle how genuine Charles is about him, ever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [until_the_earth_is_free](https://archiveofourown.org/users/until_the_earth_is_free/gifts).



> for until_the_earth_is_free, who made me feel like writing about mentally ill erik was something others would enjoy. ♥ thanks!

There was something, just something off-putting about Charles Xavier. Erik had been in his presence for less than a week and he could tell that he did not like him, not even a little.

For starters, Charles was just the type of easygoing rich boy Erik could not relate to in the slightest, and that was just as much Charles’ fault as his own, but still. Charles moved with such languidness, such leisure, and somehow still managed to look someone square in the eyes, convincingly enthralled in whatever story was being told, utterly enraptured by being in someone else’s presence. He always had a pat on the shoulder or his hand to a waist prepared, stretched his arms high above his head like a cat between stories to be polite, and he knew which fork to use during which course. Charles emptied his food into the bins. Charles kissed hands. Charles winked and made people laugh. Charles moved about a room and carried on ten conversations at once with ease and with affection. It was all effortless, the way he carried himself and behaved. It was enviously effortless, and it was making Erik’s jaw hurt from all the gritting he did in Charles’ presence.

Naturally, Erik was vastly different, and the negative attitude toward otherness tended to drive wedges between groups of people, so he let it happen.

He did not enjoy the company of others as a rule anyway, and therefore he did not entertain it. He moved with an awkward stiffness around people, human or mutant, and did not like physical contact. He skittered away from standing next to Charles when he could manage, rather like an antisocial animal, because Charles liked touches that lingered. He ate alone often, and he ate like a beast. He was well aware of the weight of fullness, both in his own stomach and in the universe. After spending such a long time being empty, being so obsessed with the idea of a filling meal, he did not allow himself to be picky, or to be wasteful. He was plain in dress and in the way he styled his hair and he tried to make himself as invisible to those around him constantly. For the most part it worked.

Erik also hated eye contact. Despised it, really. Angel and Raven were easiest to talk to, because he could analyse their makeup, the delicate wing across Raven’s false skin or the fading smoky grey that scaled up to Angel’s brows. Hank never looked him in the eyes anyway, so he never had to worry, and Alex and Darwin tended not to, either. They found him rather odd to be around, and cleared their throats and looked up at the ceiling or at one another often when in his presence. Sean was scarce anyway, choosing to spend his time throwing rocks in the fountain outside the CIA building or whistling holes in whatever shatterable object he could find for Angel’s amusement, and when he talked to Erik, it was mostly to ask him to change the channel on the small telly they shared.

And that left Charles. Charles had the warmest blue eyes he had ever seen, wide and bare, and it made Erik immensely uncomfortable. He felt often scrutinized by the big wet things, and he fidgeted easily under their gaze, something that seemed to amuse Charles greatly. 

Tonight they sat across from one another, Erik’s eyes locked on the chess match between them, long legs folded awkwardly in the recliner he sat in, knees under his chin. Only when Charles’ finger motioned to pick up a chess piece did Erik glance nervously up at Charles, and he found himself always annoyed by what he saw. Charles, eyebrows relaxed even as they furrowed, moving his hands around the board as he calculated the movements Erik had caught him in. 

(Charles was a little awful at chess. Erik thought it incredulous that he was, because English people were typically good at chess and things like that, but he was well aware the two of them knew that Erik had Charles beat eleven matches to three, and that Charles was infuriatingly not cheating.)

“So, Erik,” Charles mused once he’d settled on a piece to move, pressing it firmly into the wooden board and reaching to take a sip of his cup of tea. Erik looked away immediately, fearing being caught, unconsciously mirroring and going to his coffee. It was getting a little on the cold side, and making him feel a bit disgusted, but he downed half the contents of the cup anyway to avoid saying something for a while. Charles did not say anything further, and a pregnant pause passed between them.

“Charles?” His voice croaked under the thickness of the coffee coating it. Damn.

Charles let out one of his effortless twinkly laugh, one Erik is sure is insincere, and he adjusted himself. His trouser leg rode up his ankle a little, and between its hem and the sock on his foot, Erik could see a thin sliver of his pale peach skin. It transfixed him for a while. “You really are rather great at chess,” he conceded with a sigh, leaning in and watching bemusedly as Erik anxiously slammed his knight against the board without touching it, as though it were the first time watching Erik move the metal pieces. “I was curious as to who taught you. I should like to get their guidance so I don’t lose to you every time.”

Erik tensed, fingers clenching. The pieces vibrated for a moment on the board before Erik gained control of himself again, and if Charles noticed, he didn’t say. Erik simply brought his cup to his lips again, silver spoon hovering beside and dripping cold coffee onto Erik’s brown leather shoe. Was Charles trying to get a rise out of him? Surely he couldn’t know that it was Klaus Schmidt who had taught him to play chess, the very same Sebastian Shaw that they were gathering information on, that he had pocketed the case file of all those nights ago. It felt like forever. Erik frowned at him, back stiff in his chair, unable to say anything.

Charles seemed to get it, even though Erik knew he had not read his mind. Perhaps he was projecting. “Oh,” he said, face contorting into that of apologetic horror, almost pity. Erik seethed. “I’m so sorry, Erik. I didn’t mean to upset you, my friend. I had no idea.” Suddenly, as though he could not move, Erik allowed Charles to scoot his chair closer, placing a sad hand on Erik’s clenched fist at his knee, an incomprehensible look in his big blue eyes. Erik was looking him in the eyes. Fuck, he felt trapped, mouth going a little dry over the sheer emotion in them. What the fuck did he want from Erik? “I had only meant to say your chess skills are just as impressive as your mutation, Erik.”

“Yes, well,” Erik managed dryly, his fingers twitching on the hand not occupied by Charles’. He was shaking quite badly now, stuck under Charles’ friendly gesture, and his throat felt closed up. He forgot that he hated compliments directed toward himself. He never knew what to do with them, had no experience with them past the lilt of his poor mama or the disgusting snarl of Schmidt. He was much better with insults. The chess board was vibrating.

“Are you alright, Erik?” What the fuck did Charles want from him? His concern was audible in his voice, but Erik didn’t understand it; he had been standoffish and rude to everyone he had met, especially the telepath in front of him, had told him firmly to stay out of his head, had avoided him at all cost, and yet Charles was still persistent, thumb running soothing circles over Erik’s knuckles. 

Erik stood suddenly, bumping the table with the chess board and the drinks between them, and the soft brown of Charles’ tea mixed with the almost black of Erik’s coffee on the soft carpet between them as the cups jostled around from the contact. He extracted his hand from Charles’ and cleared his throat. “I need a moment,” he said, and he could tell it was much too loud to be normal, and Charles could tell something was wrong, but he absolutely needed to leave. 

He was vaguely aware that Charles stood after him, calling his name, but Erik shut the door and made a hasty retreat out into the courtyard of the complex they were staying in, tremors in his shadow made evident by the fluorescent street lamps that lit his path.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw--and he struggles to call him that even still--would have never known the other mutants existed had Erik chosen not to let go. They never would have found Darwin, never would have set eyes on the traitorous Angel, never would have put children in danger. 
> 
> Erik had experienced this nightmare many times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> facts we know to be true: charles manipulates erik's dream about shaw so he doesn't have a nightmare. erik avoids him for mostly unrelated reasons. raven makes cookies. charles is a doting housewife to everyone, but especially erik.
> 
> with this chapter, the denial stage of erik's feelings towards charles is done! erik has officially accepted that he is in Like with charles and that he is in hell.

Erik had experienced this nightmare many times, the sick doctor winding his way around Erik’s entire being--his too-sharp mind that somehow remained unbroken, his shaking fingertips that rattle the metal bed he’s strapped to (though he’s much too afraid to do much more than that), the wide grey eyes that well up with unshed tears even as he gets old enough for crying to embarrass him.

 _You’re doing so well, my little protégé,_  Shaw said, voice full of malice dripping from his sick smile like candy. _We_ _will make you a master of your gift yet._

Erik shuddered every time in the dream--couldn’t help it, each time it was different and yet it chilled him--and cried. He always cried. Schmidt’s grin, sharklike and impossibly venomous, blurred in his globby vision.

Schmidt’s cold hands, always so cold, warmed around his neck, coiled there like a snake in waiting, pressing hard into his throat and cutting off his air supply. Schmidt squeezed until Erik could no longer breathe. Until he died. Usually. This time, though, he did not die. Schmidt’s suffocating presence pulled back, pulled far from him, and suddenly he was floating.

It was not so much lonely as peaceful. Erik felt the sun warm his cold skin for the first time in what felt like years, probably was years. It always seemed to be raining in his memories. Now, though, it was not, and he let himself sigh contentedly. Just as suddenly as he was floating, and he knew this was possible now because he was dreaming, Xavier Manor appeared in front of him, looming pleasantly, almost leaning into his presence. _Hello,_ he thought to it. _I hadn’t expected to see you here._

Once he entered the manor, which had opened to him expectantly, he explored it for a while. Instead of the rooms he was accustomed to, he seemed to be walking through his memories. Some of the doors were shut, locked tight, with icy gusts coming from the gap near his ankles and cold doorknobs. Easy enough to figure out what those were. He moved on, and rested for a while in his old hotel rooms, fingers ghosting over the familiar scratchy sheets he had shared with many before him.

And then he is among his room at Division X, modest and plain. He can see the room where Darwin had (apparently) perished, can see the ruined statue and the dark marks of blood that stained the grass there, can see the discarded tables and chairs.

He notices for the first time that he is alone. Not quite in a formal, horrified way, but he does feel quite sacred, as though his memories are something hallowed. Feeling quite desperate all of a sudden, and for what he is unsure, Erik began moving through the rooms faster. The room in which they had found Emma Frost in Russia was there, as well as the various lavish rooms Charles had chosen for them on their Cerebro-guided trips to find mutants, sometimes with two beds to share, sometimes with one, sometimes separate rooms entirely. He remembers one sort of fondly, the way he had sat up and stared at the ghostly reflection of himself, long past the pale terrified former prisoner of eugenics but still wild, as Charles snored softly beside him, nose a little pink from the shower he’d been in, hair drying in soft curls on his face. He had not found anyone yet.

And finally, the last room, seemed to be Charles’ study. Or, at least, it was the impression that Erik--the real Erik, not this dreamscape Erik--got from it. Charles disappeared into it often, books or papers or even Raven in tow, looking jovial each time. He reappeared some hours later, looking tired and yet still entirely youthful, and he often waved at Erik when he did.

Erik felt the doorknob of the study, hairs rising on the back of his neck as he notices how _alive_ it felt. Clearly it was some other form of metal he could control painted with a shiny gold lacquer. He doesn’t know when he noted something like that last, feels somewhat ridiculous for doing so, but then he pushed it open, warm gust of sunlight once again settling over him.

He found Charles in his study, and Charles turned from where he stood at his bookshelf, a soft smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of Erik. Erik woke in a pool of his own sweat, confused and feeling vulnerable. He took his shower cold in an attempt to wake himself up, and downed his morning coffee while it was still steaming hot, rolling his burned tongue in his mouth in a feeble attempt to distract himself from whatever had just happened.

It was a long time before Charles and Erik properly spoke again, especially after Erik’s perplexing dream. Erik had retreated into his shell and actively tried to avoid Charles now, fully rather than previously just attempting to dodge physical contact, despite Charles’ constant and well-meant gestures to let Erik know that he still desired his companionship. It was excruciating for many reasons.

Firstly, Erik wanted badly to talk to Charles, to ask if he had been the perpetrator of his dream. Charles could probably do that, he reasoned, but would he? He had (feebly) attempted to reach out after the nightmare-turned-hellish-dreamscape, but had thought better of himself and had put up his mental shields again, effectively popping the bubble before it left his brain. Secondly, he knew Charles knew he was avoiding him, knew everyone in the wide halls of Xavier manor knew, judging by the cloud of angry resignation Charles had settled over himself with the loss of what he had apparently considered his close friend’s trust for a reason neither of them quite understood. It kept making everyone cross and fussy with one another.

Of course, Darwin’s death and Angel’s betrayal had not made that any easier on them. Erik’s mind wandered one night where he sat, pressed into the nook of a reading space in his claimed bedroom. (The smallest, he thinks. Multiple points of access to the outside, while still above the ground floor so that he cannot be surprise attacked by anyone who will not have to break a window or pass through the whole house. Still, he sleeps with the lights on.) It wandered to Darwin, to the Hellfire Club, to the relaying of the story from a sobbing shaking mess of a girl Raven had been that night. Sean had sat with Hank, the pair of them covered in shock blankets and shivering with lingering fear. Darwin’s sandwich and pinball game both went untouched.

Alex had been especially distant since, had said nothing to Erik aside from unspoken words through glances that bored holes through him.

He could almost feel the weight of them on his back, even though he knew it may have been in his head, that Alex blamed, blames, will blame Erik. Erik blamed himself, because it was his fault.

Shaw--and he struggles to call him that even still--would have never known the other mutants existed had Erik chosen not to let go. They never would have found Darwin, never would have set eyes on the traitorous Angel, never would have put children in danger.

(Erik tried not to blame her; she had no idea what Schmidt had done to him, how he had assumed the position he needed in order to torture Erik and disappeared once it was punishable by death, how he had killed the only person Erik had ever loved in his life, how he had called him pet names like _spatzi_ and _mäuschen_ while forcing him to pull the fillings of some poor innocent that stared back at him with the same regret and acceptance. She couldn’t have. He still curses her name to himself, and feels awful for it.)

And he never would have met Charles, because Charles had a will to live that Erik did not share and Charles would have let go to breathe precious oxygen rather than sea, because while Erik had lived following the slimy trail of Klaus Schmidt and wanted nothing more than to see him hurt as Erik had hurt, Charles had made his own shadow and enjoyed the sun with his sister and kissed people he thought were attractive in his spare time. He was not consumed by the pursuit of death. He was instead full of things Erik did not remember feeling in his life, like the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of it rather than for a purpose.

It is with that sentiment that his door burst open, and Erik was on high alert and on his feet instantaneously, every piece of sharp metal vibrating anxiously as who else but Charles rounded the doorframe, looking up almost in surprise to find fountain pens and stray screws alike pointed directly at a platter of tea and biscuits.

“Oh,” Charles said, sounding ethereally amazed as he noted the metal’s fixed placement in the air around his head. He looked magnificent, Erik noted with a hint of jealousy, his frumpy little cardigan discarded and folded over an arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up with the efforts of the day. More importantly, he didn't blame Erik for his defensive actions, merely smiled sheepishly at him from the center of the room. Erik thought Charles looked rather vulnerable, the first crack in the second skin the telepath carried with him always. “I’ve brought provisions, fresh from the oven, if you'd like!” Erik had missed dinner, of course, through his own inability to face Alex after giving the events of Darwin's death some consideration and finding that if he went back far enough, he was the one to blame. Charles was so unsettlingly considerate.

Of course, then he caught himself in Charles and his doe-eyed gaze and fidgeted nervously at his own uncertainty, lowering the metal and sending everything to its proper place. Apologetically, he took the platter in Charles’ hands, relieving him and gesturing for him to sit wherever he'd like.

“Thank you. They smell, ah, lovely.” Charles beamed at Erik’s hamfisted attempt at conversation, already brightening the room with his idiot’s smile that made Erik shake a little. He took a seat on the bed, the bed he owned and had lent to Erik, and the platter came after, at his side.

“Raven’s made them, naturally,” Charles began, accent crisp and posh in Erik’s ears. Never would he admit it, but Charles’ constant moping had brought a sense of… grateful fondness to the sound of him genuinely enjoying himself again. “Make no mistake, I’d have burned the mansion down if she let me near anything more than mixing bowls to lick clean.”

There was something boyishly cute about the idea Charles sneaking bits of chocolate chip flavoured batter from Raven’s mixing bowls, impatiently and behind her back, and maybe Erik was projecting this to Charles purposefully because he wanted to hear Charles laugh, but fuck it, right? Erik threw caution to the wind as soon as let the submarine go with Schmidt in it, and he'd not bothered taking the initiative to catch it again. Charles did laugh, eventually, and it spread a frightening bit of warmth along Erik’s face and up into his scalp. Erik distracted himself with taking a bite of biscuit.

He felt weird finding Charles cute after dreaming about him, wasn’t quite sure what that even meant with regards to their rather awkward relationship.

The cookies were delightfully soft, still warm and oozing molten chocolate onto his fingertips, and Erik surprised himself, devouring the whole thing. Typically, he would check them for poison, or for tampering, but he… god, he could hardly even bring himself to think it. He trusted Raven, somehow. “My compliments to the chef,” Erik beamed, just a little, muffled voice shielded behind his hand. Charles beamed again too, impossibly brighter. Erik is getting just a little upset about it.

Gradually, Erik sat, no longer hovering awkwardly, and Charles smiled up at him. ( _Up_ , Erik thought, ears tinting pink. _Charles has to look up. How cute._ How had he not noticed?)

Charles laughed at him, _with him?_ , and Erik flushed. Telepathic, right.

 _I’m flattered, my friend,_ Charles said, except he didn’t say it, Erik just knew it, and it’s so odd that he could hear him without using his ears or seeing Charles’ lips move that he sat fixated on them, embarrassingly so. They were nicely shaped, plump and a sweet pink, with a mole or a beauty mark on his chin, right below the curve of his lower lip on the left side, eye catching and attractive. He noted that he and Raven match in that respect. She had one on her right side, probably put it there, and that thought is sweet. _You have a way of observing that is simply remarkable, did you know?_

Erik cleared his throat, looking away, down at his lap, the spindles of his fingers curling around each other like a cat’s cradle mess of yarn. “I hadn’t realised you were listening.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” Charles apologised, and he seemed rather open about his honest resentment in that moment. “You just have an interesting mind, and last night, you were dreaming rather loudly. It’s hard for me not to just…” He trailed off, extending his hand a little in front of his face, wiggling his fingers as though trying to communicate some alien form of sign language. “Peek in.” He seemed to find the right word, and let his hand drop. “Your distress was palpable. I hope it’s alright I meddled a little.”

Charles could do that? Erik was impressed.

“I don’t mind, now that I know,” Erik found himself saying, assuring Charles with a tentative hand against his elbow that retreated as quickly as it ventured out. “It was just odd. I’ve never met a telepath before.” (Partially untrue, but he had only met the elusive Miss Frost for a few fleeting moments of time, and not long enough to be able to trust her in his mind at all.) "Is it different to talk 

 _I think it’s far easier to express things when I don’t have to say anything at all,_ Charles projected. His voice, though not a voice at all, was warm. _Being in your own mind creates a lack of censorship and apprehension. People don't often censor their own thoughts._  Charles raised his eyebrow, looking right at Erik. _It allows for rather enlightening subconscious thought._

Charles had smiled at him in his dream. "You knew what I was thinking?" Erik asked, voice more accusatory than he intended. "You were watching the dream? _You_ were in it?" He remembered the way Charles' study had felt alive, and the way everything in the room seemed to be as specific as if Erik were standing right in it, rather than the other rooms, which had been a few key pieces of the furniture surrounded by a blurry overall atmosphere. Charles had put it there.

"Well, yes." Charles was, thankfully, not speaking subconsciously, and Erik could hear the apprehension in his voice. "But I only inserted myself when your mind called for my presence and couldn't find it, really. You were sort of inching closer to it if I'm honest, what with the hotel rooms and all that from Russia, but I never intend to pick minds apart like a meal and add things as I see fit, and I didn't interfere until you all but asked me to. I'm not very good with dream manipulation, so I just took Shaw away from your thoughts for a while and let you keep dreaming." 

Shit. Charles knew exactly what had happened in Erik's dream, the exact kind of emotions he had felt while searching frantically for Charles in his own home and in his memories. Erik realised it just then, sitting awkwardly on a borrowed bed with the one person he had been trying to avoid for as long as he could. Erik had been frightened, seeking comfort and compassion and something that felt safe while both recovering and alone, and he had found Charles. And now that Charles had said it... 

It was all subconscious, like Doctor Frankenstein's monster had been, a metaphor for something bigger that Erik could not understand. Erik relied on Charles for a lot more than a place to stay. There was a reason he hadn't left Division X, after all.

Erik flushed, cleared his throat. "I was calling out for you, then." It wasn't a question, but it hung heavy in the air between them. Charles and Erik looked each other over, and Erik took the time to carefully decipher every aspect of him: his cheeks tinted with splotchy blush, his eyes searching his with eyebrows upturned in worry, the sweep of messy brown on both his forehead and wispy around his face. Erik's mouth felt dry, and he bit the inside of his cheek to try and focus on normal bodily functions like breathing and swallowing. Something more than the question sat in the air, something intimate and full of emotion and well-intended glances at one another. Now, though, neither of them wanted to look the other in the eye.

Charles took his hand. "Yes, you were. Is it alright? That I came for you when you did?" Really, Erik didn't have to say anything, so he didn't, and Charles' hand stayed on his, running warm lines down the tendons of his fingers. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I guess so,” Raven said, voice dreamy, not looking at him anymore. Her gaze shifted to the tree Hank was hanging from, dangling Charles while upside-down on a branch. He looked to be having a good time, and something shone in Raven’s eyes. “I haven’t seen him this happy here since we were kids,” she said, and Erik knew she wasn’t referring to Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for such a long gap between the last chapter and this one... i'm on spring break now, and i'm hopefully going to get at least another chapter out before the end of it. then, it's back to the old grind, but two months until i graduate!!
> 
> anyway, this chapter is mostly filler and i'm sorry about that. BUT it's necessary filler! i needed a little backstory stuff for the next chapter, and i wanted to (rather briefly) explore erik's take on charles' training, plus a little bit of his relationship with raven.

Erik hadn’t really had any concrete “alone time” with Charles since they had sat together that evening, and it wasn’t entirely his fault. He supposed that’s what he’d call it: alone time. That seemed rather childish, like they were disguising something from children, but Charles _had_ taken to calling Raven, Sean, Alex, and Hank children (and dare he say it--their children), so it, at least, was subconsciously justified as his fault. The lack of Charles’ presence was not.  Sure, some of that issue _was_ to blame on his inherent avoidance of his feelings that he had decided to face while rather drunk on the closeness between the telepath and himself, but the other part of it had to do with the fact that there are four mutants besides Erik that Charles felt compelled to care for and train.

Not that Erik was even remotely jealous.

It wasn’t like he minded too terribly, either. He rather liked watching Charles pool over one of their fellow mutants’ issues with their mutation, and he enjoyed observing the solutions with which Charles set out to solve them. After all, Charles’ intention was, so he had said over breakfast about ten thousand times, to create a place for mutant children to obtain schooling from people who were as accepting of their mutations as they were willing to help get them under control. (A noble gesture, Erik thought, and he often thought it to Charles, who returned his pulsing approval with a cheery smile that seemed to brighten his mood for the day.) It was only fair he would start to work on bettering the community he was building up for the children--actual children--to come.

Charles had first thought it prudent to help out with Alex’s mutation, since he was the one most affected by matters of the heart, and he had taken to waking up in a cold sweat and burning holes through no less than three ceilings by accident. Alex had taken Darwin’s death the hardest, and if anyone noticed just _how_ hard he had taken it, they didn’t say, especially not Erik. He had no room to criticize who’s hypothetical attraction to whom at all, and he intended to keep his nose out of whatever business Alex had going on in his own personal bubble. Charles, however, the ever-empathetic telepath, had sat down with him for two full days and worked with him, wherein they practiced controlling the rings with which Alex fought using something attached to his chest that looked like a modified pasta strainer.

After Alex, Charles had moved on to Sean, because Sean was better put to use learning to control his throat than blowing lazy rings of marijuana circles into the air of at least every room he occupied and trying to tempt Raven to join him. (Erik had an idea that it had more to do with Raven than with Sean, but he tried not to intervene.) It had been a big event when Sean was, apparently, meant to fly, and Charles had accidentally let it slip that they would be practicing over a window, which meant that everyone was going to watch him fall out of the second story window while he screamed at a frequency which was slightly too high to be comforting, but apparently did nothing to propel him from his place in Charles’ rose bushes. This, of course, was hilarious to everybody, including Sean, who simply laughed and picked thorns out of his shaggy orange hair.

Now, Charles ran around the mansion’s front lawn with Hank, who was steadfastly trying to avoid taking his shoes off and utilizing his prehensile feet to do anything more than occupy space in his socks. Charles turned lazy circles as he watched Hank pace and chatter mindlessly, and Erik sat, rather comfortable, on the front lawn, watching Charles and Hank work while Raven shifts herself into different forms distractedly.

“He really ought to be more proud of that,” Erik noted, watching Hank finally give in and remove his socks and shoes, rolling up the cuffs of his khakis so he could race Charles up a tree. He could hear Charles’ genuine laugh from where they sat, just he and Raven on the shadow-cooled grass, and it made his heart heavy and constricted in a way he packed into a tight spot in his mind that he would revisit later, when alone and more vulnerable. Hank’s gradually joined him, softer and more reserved, but still full and hearty alongside his tree companion.

Raven gave a hum of agreement and shifted into Erik. He smiled at her, at himself, and watched her as she spoke as him. “You’re right, me. He should be proud of the mutation he’s had to hide for his whole life, now that he suddenly gets to abandon his first instinct.” Then, she turned back into her favoured form, blonde and peachy, one eyebrow raised as her scales shifted slightly. “You know how stupid you sound, right?”

Erik sighed. Of course, that isn’t what he had meant, and both of them know it. He had forgotten what it was like to be a young adult, so defiant and easy to jump straight to the worst scenario. Now, as he edged right into a comfortable thirty-odd years, he mostly just felt tired, and contented, and a bit achey. Everything, even Shaw, seemed so far away, especially as he sat in the warm summery air and felt the soft breeze of shade seep into his bones. “I just mean that he’s among friends now, and if he wants to fight with us like he seems to, he’s going to have to let Charles see his mutation for something other than climbing trees.”

Raven hummed again, a little defeated. Erik looked over at her in time to see her shift silently into her blue form, which he admired appreciatively. Something about Raven was exquisite, but Erik did not find her exotic as much as he did beautiful. There was this air of easy confidence her blue form tended to give her, the knit between her eyebrows disappearing and the tenseness in her shoulders giving way to an easy proud chin and a face not concealed by her usual blonde fringe. “I guess so,” she said, voice dreamy, not looking at him anymore. Her gaze shifted to the tree Hank was hanging from, dangling Charles while upside-down on a branch. He looked to be having a good time, and something shone in Raven’s eyes. “I haven’t seen him this happy here since we were kids,” she said, and Erik knew she wasn’t referring to Hank.

“Well, he is being swung like a trapeze artist, so I’m sure that must be enjoyable,” Erik answered.

“Not just with Hank.” Raven turned to Erik, that knit in her brow back, accompanied with a small smile. “It’s you, too. When it was just the two of us here before, it was always so lonely and diluted for the two of us. He has a lot of bad memories here, from before me. I think it’s good for him to make something new out of this place.”

Erik felt at odds, like this was something he shouldn’t be hearing. He’d never heard such an accurate statement about someone before, and especially not about Charles. It certainly explained a lot, though; Charles always wanted to eat dinner in a new dining room every night, and he invited everyone to a different living room to chat and read and enjoy each other’s company whenever he could, and he walked down the long corridors when he talked, and he spent long hours exploring the grounds with whomever he could rope into the affair.

“Charles is making his saddest place happy,” Erik finally managed, after a long moment of silence between them that felt rather organic.

“No,” Raven said, voice certain as she looked at Erik. “I think you’re making Charles’ saddest place happy, and it’s making him happy in return.”

There is something in the look the two of them share, and Raven opens her mouth to voice whatever it is, but then Hank climbs the hill up to them with ease and Charles trudges after him, looking sweaty and slightly sun-kissed and so tousled Erik wants to cry, and to kiss him, and to make his saddest place as happy as he can. He is careful not to project this, but Charles’ smile is so wide and so honest when he sees Raven and Erik that he can’t help but let some of his own happiness at Charles’ appearance leak through.

Whatever it is that he and Raven shared, it goes unspoken. Not for the first time, Erik wishes he was a telepath. Instead, he takes a chattering Charles' arm and lets himself be dragged away from Raven, his place beside her in the grass now occupied by Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in 1962, when this fic takes place, erik is 30 years old, and charles is 28. erik is, judging by my approximate knowledge of the way children look (lol), 12 years old at the time of his imprisonment and his mother’s murder, as seen in xmen: first class. charles is younger, of course, because charles at westchester during the flashbacks just seems a little bit juvenile, since he still keeps a picture of einstein in a frame on his bedside table and wears matching pyjamas. also, raven is probably like, what, eight or nine-ish? so a year or two younger than charles, who is two years under erik.
> 
> now, after extensive googling that was probably extraneous and i could have just given up because this isn’t even for the benefit of the fic since erik isn’t going to celebrate his birthday, i can’t find anywhere that gives even a vague estimate of erik’s birthday. since we know the cuban missile crisis took place in october 1962, we’re going to say that erik will, unfortunately for him, turn 31 before the cuban missile crisis. i don’t know why this is important at all, but i just want to give you lot something interesting to read in this author’s note.
> 
> (if anyone’s curious, this places him in his 40s during days of future past, at the perfectly ripe old age of just starting to have back issues.)


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